


Such outward things dwell not in my desires

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Civil War, Confederate AU, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Flirting, Slow Romance, commandeered farmhouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 09:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: A reluctant invitation. A shared drink. A conversation never to be forgotten.





	Such outward things dwell not in my desires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/gifts).
  * Inspired by [And comes safe home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16341008) by [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch). 



With Captain Foster’s knowledge and Mrs. von Olnhausen’s skill, the surgery had been a success, and the young man was peacefully recovering in the guest bedroom, along with two other injured soldiers. The ill men had been dispatched throughout the house, one on a folded blanket, another on a make-shift pallet, until all were sufficiently comfortable for the time being.

The kitchen had been scrubbed of all traces that it had ever been otherwise than a kitchen, Foster providing the manpower, and Mary the directions, watchfully guarding the favorite household items she did not care to sacrifice to the Cause.

As the day came to an end, a soup had been made from their pooled provisions, and one by one, the able men had retired to their tents, a few remaining huddled around a small campfire for a last smoke or drink. Thankfully, the night was clear and warm, and it was with relief that Jedediah Foster exited the house to stretch his weary muscles, filling his lungs with the fragrant scents of the fields and wood smoke. At last, he settled himself down in one of the rockers on the porch, and was pouring himself a shot of bourbon while staring down the apprehensive cat in the chair next to him when Mary von Olnhausen stepped out of the house.

Upon seeing him there, she started, the tea pot rattling on the tray she carried. Jedidiah stood up immediately. “Is this your seat? I can go elsewhere,” he offered, noticing appreciatively that she had tidied up her hair and removed her blood-splattered apron.

“Your men have already taken over my whole house; you’d be hard-pressed to find another quiet corner. You may stay, if you wish.” She set the tray down on the table between the chairs, hesitated somewhat, then sighed. “Would you like some mint tea? Fresh from the garden.”

He was pleasantly surprised at the unexpected offer. “Only if you have quite enough to spare, and if you’ll allow me to contribute a drop of bourbon,” he added mischievously, slushing the bottle.

Mary considered it for an instant, before shrugging. “Why not,” she answered. “I think today deserves something stronger than peppermint to cap off.”

She fetched an extra cup before pouring the tea, which he completed with a liberal amount of bourbon, and she took the chair next to him, the calico nestling itself happily in her lap. For an instant, they stayed silent, boards creaking to the rocking of the chairs, the cat’s soft purr harmonising with the crickets’ song in the field. The air was heavy with the humidity of the late Virginian summer, and not lessened in the least by the simmering tension between the two hesitant seatmates.

Mary took a careful sip from her cup, and could not help exhaling in contentment. “Hmm, this is delicious. Is bourbon standard army fare? If so, I must exhort our Ladies’ Aid Society to be less generous in their contributions to the war effort.”

Jedidiah grinned. “One of the perks of being an officer. That and the company of the lady of the house, apparently.” At her returning frown, he raised his hands in surrender. “ _Reluctant_ company, to be sure, as I’m sitting in _your_ chair, on _your_ porch, in _your_ house. You made this quite clear. I assure you I take no pleasure in my regiment’s imposition.”

She only stared him down harder. “With twenty men, I’d say we are well passed imposition and wholly into invasion territory.”

“Why yes, of course,” he agreed emphatically, his annoyance returning. “I most humbly apologize for my horde of invading barbarians - your countrymen, by the by- laying siege to your grand baronial estate, Milady. Good thing we left the trebuchets at the other kingdom we pillaged yesterday.”

There was an ever so slight curl at the corner of her lips, but it vanished behind the cup she quickly brought to them. “Yes, thank Heavens,” she rallied after taking a sip, “or the casualties might be higher than some old linens, wilted vegetables, and a plate I never much cared for.”

It was his turn to hide a smile in his drink, and he attempted a truce. “Speaking of food, we are not badly provisioned, and thus should not be a strain to your reserves, aside from occasional fresh produce, if you can spare some to brighten the monotony of a soldier’s diet.”

“I am glad to hear it, because I know exactly when and how many eggs my chicken lay, so if only one should be missing tomorrow morning, your men will get none.”

 _So the truce is rejected,_ he thought gleefully. “If they are all there, do we get an omelet?” he asked cheekily.

There was a spark in her eyes, and she beamed him a radiant, if sarcastic, smile. “If they are all there, I will give you a few and you may cook them whichever way you like them.”

Jedidiah could only chuckle at her retort and overly sweet delivery. “That is most kind of you, Mrs. von Olnhausen. Please take my word that I have already warned my men of punishments better not repeated in polite company should they lift a finger to your property… or person,” he added with a downward glance that did not go unnoticed.

“That is most kind of you, Captain Foster,” she echoed gracefully, “to issue such dire threats to these poor boys, but I dare hope there would be quite enough witnesses in our cramped quarters to prevent such unspeakable behavior.”

He shook his head in dramatic reproach. “Never underestimate soldiers far away from home, bent on conquest and glory, in the presence of a beautiful woman.”

His sly compliment touched its mark, but she did not gratify him to let it show. “I have your honorable word as a true Southern gentleman that no harm shall come to me.” He lifted his cup and bowed his head in affected solemnity at her words. “But should it fail, I also have a locking door and a loaded gun.”

 _And a wit sharper than a sword,_ he appreciated with relish. “Shoot my men and I’ll need your help to fix them up again. And your house longer still for them to rest and recover. Surely that is not in your advantage.”

“Oh, it will be in my advantage as I very rarely miss my shot.”

At this, he laughed heartily. “I should take these menaces against my men seriously, but I am enjoying sparring with you far too much.” He leaned across to refill their cups, making up the depleted tea with a double dose of the bourbon. “You truly have a riposte for everything, Mrs. von Olnhausen, it’s quite remarkable. You would have made a terrifying barrister. Your husband is a brave man indeed. Which lucky regiment is he fighting in?”

A shadow passed over her face, and she averted her eyes. “None,” she replied softly. “He passed away over a year ago, before the war.”

It was as if a cold wind had blown in, dissipating the energy generated by their argument, chilling their slowly warming rapport. “I’m so sorry, I did not… please forgive my insensitivity,” he apologized, immensely regretting his comment. Earlier, upon settling his men throughout the house, he had noticed the lack of a nursery, of toys strewn across the floor, of small clothes drying on the line, and had wondered why that was so, although widowhood had never crossed his mind. “Do you live alone here, then? Does that not worry you?” he asked kindly, betraying his own concern at her fate.

“No, not alone; you’ve met Aurelia, my housemaid, and I also have a few field hands, but they are currently at a neighbor’s to help with the harvest,” she lied, before deflecting the subject away from her fleeing servants. “Besides, I don’t see how my situation differs from the other wives and mothers whose men have gone off to fight. Isn’t that the nature of war? The men go to the front while the women hold the fort?”

“Yes, especially against invading hordes of their barbarian countrymen,” he agreed, drawing a smile from her, and restoring some of their earlier congeniality. She sipped her brew, its stronger potency emboldening her to counter on. “How is Mrs. Foster faring?” she asked lightly.

He shot her a side-glance, wondering at the intent behind the question. “The only Mrs. Foster in my family is my mother, and I’m sure she’s doing perfectly well in our Maryland plantation, although should you ask her, she’d probably say she’s wretchedly miserable.”

It was Mary’s turn to apologize, and he cut her off gently. “No, please don’t. I’m not a widower, just an old bachelor.” He remained quiet for an instant, nursing his drink, before the heavy silence compelled him to fill it and clarify the matter further. “There might have been a Mrs. Foster once, but thankfully, we came to our senses in time and called off our engagement. She went off to California and I ran in the opposite direction, all the way to Europe, to study medicine; I have been happily married to it ever since.”

“Really? Where about in Europe?” she responded, perking up in interest. “That would explain why you do not butcher my husband’s name as everyone else does. Do you speak German?”

“ _Schrecklich_. As I lived mostly in Paris, my French is considerably better, although my accent, I was told, is horrendous. I fear we Americans are hopeless in that matter.”

To his surprise, she started softly singing, the tempo of her tune matching the rocking of her chair.

_“À la claire fontaine,_

_M’en allant promener._

_J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle._

_Que je m’y suis baignée._

_Il y a longtemps que je t’aime._

_Jamais je ne t’oublierai. »_

Her voice was low, almost husky, and with no trace of English sonorities, although the dialect was completely unlike the ones he had heard abroad. She took in his astonished expression, and could not help a soft giggle.

“I grew up in Massachusetts, and later moved to Manchester, New Hampshire,” she explained. “We lived in an area called “Little Canada” as it housed a large population of French-Canadian expatriates. My best friend, Marie-Louise, was one of them; I taught her English, she taught me French. I remember her mother singing this song to her when we were girls, and her singing it to her own baby, when she became a mother herself.”

Her features were softened by sweet nostalgia, with perhaps a hint of regret, and Jedidiah admired her in wonder for an instant, before regaining his bearings. “I stand corrected: some Americans are quite gifted in losing their native accents. However, you now have me deeply puzzled: I don’t know whether to be impressed with your linguistic fluency or worried that I’ve commandeered the house of a secret Yankee.”

“It couldn’t have been much of a secret to such an astute observer as you, Captain Foster,” she countered, sparking back to the present. “My allegiance may be to the South, and I fully assure you that it is, but my accent is by no means Southern.”

“I assumed your Teutonic heritage to be behind your Northern inflections, Frau von Olnhausen. Or should I instead say Madame d’Olnhausen?” he questioned.

She rolled her eyes, half-annoyed, half-amused. “As already stated, _Mrs._ von Olnhausen, if you please. Née Mary Phinney. My husband was German. He came to Manchester for the same reasons the Canadians did: to work in the textile mills. We met there, and married, but he could not abide the New England winters and the harsh dye chemicals he worked with in the mills, so we moved here years ago to try our hand at farming, instead.”

“And seem to have done well enough, judging by the fine state of your domain. Still, I think I shall better keep a careful eye on you, Mrs. von Olnhausen née Mary Phinney from Manchester, New Hampshire.”

He did as promised, fixing his gaze upon her face, with barely a teasing twinkle in his dark eyes. Whether from the drink or intent attention, she felt a long-forgotten warmth slowly spread within her core, and decided it more prudent to adjourn the evening before it made her reveal even more personal matters, or do something more imprudent still. With a last swig, she emptied her cup and set it on the tray.

“I think I shall retire for tonight,” Mary said, lifting the protesting cat and replacing in on the chair. She stood and he mirrored her instantly, his impeccable manners impressing her once more. She smoothed down her dress and saw his eyes tracking the movement of her hands. Self-consciously, she clasped them together, as if to ground herself against the slight dizziness that suddenly overcame her, the alcohol rushing to her brain, the heat increasing from their closer proximity and his impertinent gaze lingering over her body. With a sudden boldness, she lifted her chin up and heard herself say: “Unless another perk of being an officer is commandeering my bedroom?”

His head snapped up at attention and he quickly gauged her expression: her face was that of the irritated host from earlier, but her eyes betrayed an intent that was unmistakable, a challenge, the eager curiosity of whether the bait would be taken. “Oh, it is, but being the true Southern gentleman we already established me to be, I will gracefully decline to make use of it. Besides,” he continued, the bait taken gladly, “I prefer to keep my commandeering of bedrooms… upon invitation only.”

He met her gaze squarely then, the playful glint fading in the darkness of his eyes. Although she felt the color rise up her neck, she did not look away, but took a step closer to him instead.

“In that case, you are welcome to -” she said softly, extending an arm toward him, but just has he was about to take it, shifting it sideways it to point at his chair. “- my rocker. And if you and your men behave, tomorrow you might even bring it inside.”

“And the day after?” he asked, inching closer. “Where might I go then?”

Her eyes bore deep into his, and turned malicious. “Hopefully, far away from here, as your men should have recovered sufficiently.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know…” he pondered intently, looking down. “Wounds take time to heal. Ailments longer still to cure. I may very well still have need for these… agile fingers of yours for many days more.” There was the slightest brush of knuckles to the back of her hand, and she jerked it away as if burnt, the heat of his touch persisting against her skin.

“Keep up such comportment and it might be _your_ wounds my fingers tend next,” she warned, in too breathless a voice to be truly menacing. “Digging out the bullets.”

“Oh yes, from your loaded gun,” he remembered, noticing despite the darkness the sudden blush of her cheeks, and imagining no lovelier sight. “Although I thought your aim was always true? I take it as progress in our relationship that you’d spare my life. And personally see to my recovery afterwards.”

“I may very well still have need of you as well,” she echoed, looking up at him furtively through her lashes, and finding him closer still than she expected. “Your honorable word might be worth precious little to my besiegers if you are not there to keep it and enforce these unmentionable punishments.”

He sighed, his concern as to her safety returning, and he softened his approach. “So many unnecessary threats in what should only be a patriotic partnership. The friendliest of alliances. I truly am sorry if I caused you alarm or offense.”

Mary considered this for an instant with her spinning mind, an uneasy comfort rising from his words, and she ardently wished he would rather tease her once more than ply her with gentle kindness. “You are right," she finally granted. "We both stand to gain much more from fighting together rather than each other. Let us preserve the goodwill grown tonight and call a ceasefire in this skirmish over my "grand baronial estate", as you so lavishly put it.”

She almost extended her hand for him to shake and seal the pact, but the memory of the fire from his earlier touch came back at once, and she withheld it in time; such a transgression should not be so rapidly forgiven, no matter how much she strangely yearned for it to happen again.

If Jedidiah noticed her trouble, he did not acknowledge it: he only nodded, pleased by her overture, although regretful that this was quite clearly a cue that their evening was at an end. “I’ll leave you to your rest then, Baroness. I'm afraid you will need it: it could very well be a lengthy siege.”

 “A shame you left your trebuchets behind, then,” she smirked.

“Oh no; that would cause considerable damages. And the last thing I wish is to hurt the most gracious and charming of hosts.” With this, he stepped back, and bowed deeply. “I thank you for the tea, the comfort of your rocker, and such a splendidly entertaining evening. _Gute Nacht,_ _Frau_ von Olnhausen.”

Mary could not help but smile; his accent truly was horrendous. “ _Bonne nuit, Capitaine_ Foster,” she replied with a tilt of her head. “ _À demain_.”

She took the tray and he opened the door, holding it while she passed him, her skirt brushing against his leg, one last look exchanged until to hold it longer would be to look back, and face what it implied; and this would never do a mere day into what they both hoped indeed to be the friendliest of alliances.

After she left, Jedidiah dropped once more in the rocking chair, letting his head fall back against the headrest, and exhaled. “You are one lucky fellow,” he told the cat, which purred his approval from across the table.

And when Mary closed her bedroom door, she allowed herself to consider, for one brief instant, what might happened should she, one day, neglect to lock it.

**Author's Note:**

> Look at all them words. They breed like Gremlins in water.
> 
> Thank you to middlemarch for coming up with this inspiring AU; I humbly present a possible Chapter 2 in the lovely world she introduced us to, where Phoster still does what it does best: argue. Perhaps more overtly flirtatiously than on the show, but that’ll be the Southern effect. 
> 
> Manchester, N.H, did have a Little Canada area with Quebecers who sought better employment in industrial New England than possible in the mostly agricultural landscape of the province at the time. Although emigration would really increase after the Civil War, Mary would probably have met French speakers in the textile mills where she worked before her marriage to Gustav von Olnhausen. Her being fluent is my creative license.
> 
> I also took creative license in removing the annoying plot contrivance that was Jed’s marriage. Eliza is much better off in California as Debbie Eagan aka Liberty Belle anyway. 
> 
> In keeping with the original, the title is from St.Crispin's Day speech.
> 
> Yes, I found a way to make Mary a baroness after all. Ha.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [More eloquence in a sugar touch of them](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16602215) by [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch)
  * [wish not one man more](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16579682) by [tortoiseshells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/pseuds/tortoiseshells)




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